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Oh, yes, said Mr. Clarke. I published an article about it. I have a reprint here.” He reached into his briefcase and pulled out a thin sheaf of papers and handed them to Mr. Spardleton. I got up and went over to the table to get a pad of paper. As I was picking up the pad I heard Mr. Clarke continue, “Im quite certain I was the first to conceive of the twenty-four-hour satellite, because, as you can see, I published this article back in 1945. October of 1945, to be exact.” She hung her coat and satchel in the hall and walked through to the lounge. The curtains were drawn, a fire crackling in the hearth. In the corner the television set was working quietly. Melanie sat rather grumpily on the mat, feet apart, hands spread each side of her.Susan, she complained, before her sister was halfway through the door, “I cant find my big animal book. And I wanted it tonight for Brownies. Do you know where it is?” Feeling that if he did not move at this movement, he would never be able to move again in his life, Dyak tore himself from the bush, dodged in past that murderous flailing tail and once more hurled himself at the monsters skull. He mistrusted his ability to pierce the armored flesh of the cruncher, but the eyes were a safe target. Well still learn, said Biev. Gargarin knew from the direct reply that the other had left the lecture hall and was in the here-now, puffing up a hill with him through the ankle-deep snow. A dress. He sat down at the desk and began to check out hisinstruments from the locked drawer where hed kept them. Once he reached across the desk and turned on a tape of Gene Gerard’sExcelsior! The flat midwestern voice murmured in the background. I do; I most certainly do, he said huffily. A womans place—” Bagelbaker is buying, ran the word through Money Market, but Bagelbaker was selling again before the word had made its rounds. Basil Bagelbaker enjoyed making money, and it was a pleasure to watch him work as he dominated the floor of the Market and assembled runners and a competent staff outof the corner of his mouth. Helpers stripped the panhandler rags off him and wrapped him in a tycoon toga. He sent one runner to pay back twentyfold the young couple who had advanced him a thousand dollars. He sent another with a more substantial gift to Ildefonsa Impala, for Basil cherished their relationship. Basil acquired title to the Trend Indication Complex and had certain falsifications set into it. He caused to collapse certain industrial empires that had grown up within the last two hours, and made a good thing of recombining their wreckage. He had been the richest man in the world for some minutes now. He became so money-heavy that he could not maneuver with the agility he had shown an hour before. He became a great fat buck, and the pack of expert wolves circled him to bring him down. Last year, one of the oldest of old mysteries, the Abominable Snowman, was back in the public prints, under examination on two very different fronts. The eyes searched for the speaker, blinked and blinked again to bring him into focus. The man tried to speak, but there was only a rattle like too many unsaid words fighting for an outlet. Thomas M. Disch Maybe someone back there can tell us. Or maybe something in Western literature. Enunciator of Porphyrys Categories, P’s Lament; instigator of P’s Literary Schizophrenia. The Categories (1968) were an American literary achievement, and were three. (1) comprised 90% of the writers of the time. Their talent, as described by P, consisted of a middling facility in the manipulation of a minimal vocabulary rudimentary perceptions; unsullied ignorance of man’s history; disdain of reason; and a violent, probably psychotic, attachment to the sentimental. Writers of this group were barely distinguishable in style or attitude and naturally set great store by publicity, as only the public’s automatic responses (àPavlov, I.P.) maintained them. They accepted without question the prevalent mythos (then known as “reality”) and manufactured novel after novel in its support, almost all about hanky-panky (urban, suburban, rural), with animadversions on the “emotional” conflicts ofthe era, which were not truly emotional, but simple oppositions of childish egos or absurd fears. These writers were essentially masochistic and their technique was in the juvenile tradition: an uninterrupted series of insignificant events in the lives of unbelievable characters, reported in conscientiously pedestrian prose. This was called “the writer’s obligation to the reader,” or “narrative power,” the latter a phrase used often by reviewers, seldom by critics. First novels by any of this group were usually said either to have “catapulted him into the first rank of American novelists” or to “show an immense promise.” He stared at her with the same sort of astonishment that the caretaker had shown when she asked about the portrait. She asked about it again.Thats a portrait of him when young, isn’t it? The cul-de-sac was deserted when Quincannon, dry beneath a newly purchased umbrella, turned into it from Jessie Street. Boards had been nailed across the front entrance to the cigar store and a police seal applied to forestall potential looters. At the house next door, tattered curtains now covered the parlor window. And even as I learned about my own dead seed, I learned that the same genetic principles applied to other Earth life, that neither animal nor plant could be expected to propagate away from Earth. No, the local ecology had to be favorable to mans survival, else no colony. I accepted that, it was reasonable..
